Letting Go Prologue
by smalld1171
Summary: Some hunts are harder than others. A prologue to my previous drabble of the same name that answers the question of what led the brothers to that place.


_Hello everyone. A while back I had written a 100 word drabble called 'Letting Go' and some folks who read it asked for a bit of a background story. I have been away for quite some time from the world of fan fiction but did get some inspiration to write by a contest posted on another site (and I hope it will help to get my writing juices flowing again). So, here is the prologue to that original story which I hope any who read will enjoy. _

_Disclaimer: I own NOTHING._

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They head out quickly towards the Impala, Sam barely managing to join his brother inside as the car roars to life within seconds. Sam's body jerks back in an almost violent reaction as Dean presses his foot to the floor, ignoring the strain of the engine and the spray of debris and gravel that spits out from under her wheels.

The older brother jams a hand into the pocket of his jacket and retrieves his phone, punching in numbers with an almost uncontrollable haste.

Dean holds a vice grip on the phone against his ear while his free hand taps nervously against the wheel, his left leg joining in to bounce up and down as he impatiently waits for a sign of life from the other end. Darkened eyes scan the horizon and he swallows when dusk seems to rapidly descend upon the earth to give way to the full moon.

"Hello? Mr. Smith? Agent Young. I need you to listen to me very carefully alright? Just… okay… wait… Just… please, stop talking and listen to me!"

Sam feels the hairs stand up on his neck, the tone in which his brother talks to the parent of the latest victim makes the temperature of his blood drop and send a chill through his veins.

"Sorry, but this is important. My partner and I are heading back to your place right now but… what?" Dean turns to face his brother and Sam swears he can see horror on his older sibling's face. As Dean's gaze turns back to focus on the road he lets out a sigh of frustration and his hand wrings the steering wheel with such vigour that his knuckles turn an unnatural shade of white. He grinds out his next sentence, barely containing the storm that churns within. "Okay then, where is your cabin? Yeah, I think we passed that road on the way in, we'll find it."

Sam braces his hand against the dash as Dean slams on the brakes suddenly and manoeuvres a quick u-turn to head in the opposite direction.

"Is your daughter with you? NO! Don't get her. Listen carefully. You and your wife need to leave, right now. No… you don't go out and find her, you leave… without her. Because…" Dean gulps and speaks softly into the phone. "…because she is the one who has been doing this. I'm sorry but that isn't your daughter, not anymore. If you want to live through the night you get in the car and you high tail it out of there. NOW! Hello? Mr. Smith?"

Sam hears the same thing his brother does; a loud bang followed by the man on the other end of the phone calling out to his wife to run and the sound of their daughter's name ripped out of his throat over and over again; screamed in disbelief and horror just as both the phone line and the inside of the car are draped in an eerie silence.

They make it to the scene in record time; the car screeches to a halt as both brothers bolt from its barely still frame, instinctively drawing their guns as they sprint towards the cabin oblivious to the light drizzle that starts to coat their skin.

The fluidity in which they move; the automation that comes from years of working together silently splits the duo in two; one man heads towards to the back of the structure, the other approaches the front door with cautious yet barely contained urgency. He sighs and shakes with fury, the thought that he didn't see this coming makes him fume with another round of self-loathing.

The light from the full moon provides ample illumination on the entrance of the cabin as his unarmed hand touches the door, the creak of its hinges as it moves making his stomach clench. The odour is powerful, pungent and unmistakeable. The copper taint of blood infiltrates and assaults his senses and seems to worm itself right into his skin.

And it verifies what he already knew; that they are too late.

The slickness of blood meets flesh as he closes the door, a glance casted towards the once golden handle in his grip drifts upward to rest and harden on a crimson handprint stained into the wood, igniting a fire of rage from deep within. The print is small and feminine but seems to lengthen and distort as dark eyes bore into it, as the definition of the fingers start to meld into each other, leeching outward to taint the surrounding surface. He swallows and tenses as he takes in the endless rivets of fluid that march slowly and painstakingly down the surface.

The blood is fresh.

The figure turns, willing himself to concentrate on what has now officially become a search and destroy mission and not a rescue. He tries not to dwell on the red tinge on his hand or the mark he just saw; on the fact that his feet stand in the same spot where someone fought for their last gasp of life, where their final attempt to stave off death failed and their blood lays splattered and painted on the walls of their own home like a morbid tapestry.

Fingers tighten around the weapon as their owner cautiously scans the room, on edge and alert at the very viable threat that their target is still close by. There is a hazy glow in the interior as a faint light emanates from the flickering remnants of a lamp that lies on its side, the bulb fractured from the impact of a struggle not long done.

He heads further through the obstacle course of items and possessions flung in disarray, the scope of the struggle lain out in crystal clarity before him; seemingly to taunt him that he arrived too late. He notices a blood smeared phone, its cord mangled and ripped right out of the wall and a chill runs through him, at the realization that he was on the other end when the call was disconnected in a wave of violence. In his mind's eye he can see the way it all played out. The pool of blood on the colourful rug just inside the door; the smear of crimson as the rug is forgotten and the victim is dragged onto the hardwood floor; the splatter, the overturned phone and lamp and counter and….

He walks slowly and shakes his head to clear the dizziness of guilt and remorse; to try and silence the echo of their screams as they replay and reverberate through his brain.

Movement attracts his attention and he instantly homes in on the flicker of shadow in the distance. He exhales a breath as the distinctive form of his brother appears through the open back door, before Sam stops and focuses on the floor at his feet.

He meanders his way through the main room and as he passes a shelving unit he gulps at the picture it displays. Smiling parents flanked on each side by their equally happy daughters, each of them oblivious that their lives would end like this, painful and bloody. He hears the squish of liquid under the boots as he leaves the one room behind and enters the next. He takes a deep, calming breath before his gaze drops to the surface to look upon Mr. Smith, sprawled out in his own kitchen, eyes frozen in terror and his body ripped to shreds.

Sam stands alert yet silent at the backdoor, keeping an eye on his brother while scanning the shadows for signs of their target. He watches as Dean bends down and places a shaky hand upon the man's brow before whispering a soft apology and gently sliding the eyes closed. Neither brother needs to inspect the father's remains to know that his heart is missing; the saturation of crimson on his battered remains is evidence enough.

Dean tears his eyes away from the gruesome scene and stands, his stomach successfully launching itself into the base of his throat and his hands instinctively balling into fists. He heads towards the back door and as his anger bubbles up and he continues his exodus to the outside, his fist flies out and connects with the frame. Pain lances through his digits and up his arm and he welcomes the brief distraction of it. He storms out, the echo of his brother's voice crashing into his retreating back and splintering into fragments. He can't stop and talk about it, he can't voice his disgust and guilt at what this discovery solidifies for them. They were too late and an entire family has been taken out by their own flesh and blood.

He steps out of the horror to greedily breathe in the night air and feel the coolness of the misty rain on his skin. A sigh escapes him at the irony of it; that he can stand and enjoy the beauty of nature, detached and numb and able to savour the refreshing stillness of the night while behind him he leaves the scene of the crime in the dust. He snorts in disgust; at the fact that while a battle of life and death raged and spewed its hatred and vileness inside those four walls, the outside world didn't hear one damn thing, remaining pure and untouched by the evil in its midst.

He silences the rambling in his head and focuses on what  
needs to be done. Game face on and jaw set, he shakes his head and lets his instincts take over to erase and harden his emotions until they splinter and break, leaving only a skilled hunter in their wake.

Sam comes to stand flush with his brother and can almost see the wall be built back up, as the stony features take over once more. Dean turns to face him and casually states the obvious. "Okay, so dad's dead. The sixty four thousand dollar question is… where's mom? And little Katie?"

Sam recoils slightly at the coldness of his brother's tone but doesn't comment, he knows his brother and that his fight instinct is in full force and probably the only thing that is keeping him from breaking in two.

Before the brothers can discuss their next move, a scream tears out from the night and they sprint towards the sound, away from the cabin and into the forest beyond.

This is so freaking wrong. He is not in the woods right now, tripping over damn branches and undergrowth, his boots making a sucking sound as they slide their way back to the surface, popping out of the rain soaked ground. Yet, here he is, following the agonizing screams of pain and anguish that filter out from the brush into the air that surrounds them.

The brothers slow their pace as the sound increases in volume and they close in on its source. The duo crouches behind a natural barrier of plant life to scope out the scene.

It's disturbing and beyond messed up. Mrs. Smith, a recent widow and soon to be childless woman, is curled up on the ground and sobbing uncontrollably, her terrified eyes watching the movements of her own child as she circles and stalks her like a rabid animal. The creature's eyes glow in the moonlight that filters from above and the fangs and claws are set in attack position.

"P..please Katie… please… we can find you… help… please Katie…"

Dean whispers to his brother that the show is about to start; Sam nods and readies himself to make a move for the woman cowering on the ground in a steadily expanding pool of her own blood.

Dean stands to his full height and bellows out into the night. "Hey! Katie!" The werewolf growls and turns to face its newest prey. " Yeah, that's right bitch! Over here! Why don't you pick on someone your own size sweetheart? Come and get me!"

As the creature begins to rotate towards his brother, Sam slinks along the forest floor towards the injured woman's position.

"C'mon you piece of crap, I ain't got all night. Whats'a matter? Scared? COME AND GET SOME!"

Dean sees the switch in the werewolf's eyes and its change of stance and feels a smirk curl on his lips; yeah, the bitch is about to go down. As she turns and charges, any nagging thoughts he had of who that young girl used to be or doubts about what he has been forced to do leeches out of him to slide along his arm and into the finger he has wrapped around the trigger.

"NO! DON'T! Katie! Please! STOP!"

The woman's panicked voice filters into his ears just as his finger presses down and the silver bullet flies out from the weapon to tear directly into her daughter's form, stopping her dead in her tracks. Gravity takes hold to pull her lifeless body back to the earth, reverting her back into the young woman who was once so full of innocence and life.

"NOOOOO!"

Dean catches his brother's eye as the mother howls out in despair and anguish. Sam keeps his brother's gaze and the older Winchester can read something else written within the other man's expression. A small shake of Sam's head and a motion he makes to her neck and his message is nauseatingly clear.

Mrs. Smith has been bitten.

"Can I see my daughter? Please? Can you take me to her?"

Dean swallows down the bile that climbs up his throat before coming alongside the duo. With the support of one brother on each side, the grieving wife and mother reaches her daughter and collapses against Katie's chest.

The brothers stand back while a bloodied hand strokes the fair skin of a young woman who now shows no signs of the creature she had been moments before.

Sam watches his brother intently; sees him palm the gun still held tightly in his grasp and instinctively reaches out to place what he hopes is a comforting touch on Dean's shoulder.

The older brother doesn't look up and doesn't speak before he takes a step forward out of Sam's hold and points his weapon towards the broken woman at his feet.

She stops and her head turns to the ground where Dean stands and slowly raises her bloodshot eyes to peer at the hunter that looms above her. Her eyes widen as she takes in the sight of the gun pointed at her but she makes no sound and no attempt to get away.

The only words spoken before another gunshot echoes through the canopy of the forest is a shaky 'I'm sorry'.

Dean stands motionless, his hand still raised and the grip on the weapon unflinching.

Sam approaches slowly until they stand side by side. The look on Dean's face screams hate and loathing but also pain; it seems to ooze out from every pore, through tear filled eyes.

He guides Dean's arm down gently until the gun comes to point at the forest floor.

"Dean? Let go, it's over."

Sam manages to pry the weapon from his brother's grip just as Dean's knees buckle and he heads for the ground, his shaking shoulders and the sobs that emanate from him proof that his wall has just split wide open and another scar has been marked upon his soul.

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_The End. Thanks for stopping by :) _


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